


The Poor and the Dead

by Burnadette_dpdl, Rebness



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Shopping, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: Just before the holidays, Lestat revisits an old location in Paris with Louis, and finds himself lost in memories of the first Christmas he ever spent in Paris...





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was a substitute gift for the vcsecretgift exchange (http://vcsecretgifts.tumblr.com/) for Bravenotstubborn! Their prompt was "Lestat, Nicki, and Armand having some heated moment OR being really cute decorating the house/tree." Well, we couldn't wedge Armand in there, but there is plenty of holiday fluff, sprinkled with angst ;3
> 
> The title comes from:
> 
> 1\. The inscription above Nicolas Flamel's house, and of course his quest for immortality;
> 
> 2\. Nicki is poor. And dead. D: 
> 
> 3\. We were also thinking of Joyce's The Dead, where the wife is sad and remote, thinking of the young man who wasted away with unrequited love for her.

Paris in late November held a fragile beauty; the trees were finally bare of leaves, and there was a softness in the air, the hazy feel right before a snowfall. The skies above the city were a purple bruise blanketed with clouds. There was a pleasant sharpness to the cold; the brisk autumnal crispness before the biting frost of winter would set in during the weeks to follow.

Louis and Lestat wove their way among the merrily lit stalls that lined the Champs-Élysées. Children were out past their bedtime, clutching hot chocolate in little paper cups; adults of all ages basked in warm festive glow of the stalls, the soft light of the old street lamps, and the lengths of string lights wrapped around the trees.

Lestat was utterly bewitched, and had to touch almost everything his eyes fell on, even if he had seen these same items countless times in countless cities. There were the generic European Christmas market tables of toys, figurines for nativity scenes, and trinkets. He flitted from one stand to another, on a natural shopper’s high, and Louis mostly followed behind, taking it all in with chagrined patience.

He found himself drawn to the ornaments of older designs, regarding them all dreamily. He picked up a glass bauble, iridescent and as thin as a soap bubble, and rolled it in his long fingers.

Lestat was across the way inspecting more durable items; the little wooden frog instruments were a favorite of his. Their ridged spines could be made to “chirp” by running a slim wooden rod across them repeatedly. He had begun a collection of these of varying sizes at the castle in the Auvergne. He brought a newly purchased one, bright blue, over to Louis and chirped it at him.

‘Don’t tell me. That means ‘I love you,’ in frog, right?’ Louis said, anticipating that this explanation was coming, as it always did.

‘That’s correct! Beautiful, pleasant, _and_ fluent in frog, that’s my sweeting,’ Lestat grinned, and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek.

‘I believe that’s all you’ve taught me in the language.’ Louis said, rolling his eyes.

‘That’s all you need to know,’ Lestat said, balling the frog up in its wrappings and twirling his hand to motion to Louis to turn around so that he could slip it into his backpack. Louis turned, felt Lestat make space for this item among the others in the pack and zip it up again. ‘Oh look, scarves!’ he exclaimed, and pulled Louis over to another shop.

There were many such stands, but this one was of an obvious higher quality, and it seemed to be connected to a charitable organization. ‘Oh, we _must_ get something here,’ Lestat was saying, making a beeline for the trilby hats. ‘You’re always complaining about being chilled, try on some scarves.’ He put on a black hat and studied his reflection in the mirror.

‘I’m actually very comfortable just now--’

‘Oh please,’ Lestat said, turning to Louis and tipping the hat down rakishly. ‘We’ll be out of this market and in five minutes you’ll be complaining, “It’s so chilly, _can’t_ we go into a cafe?’”

‘I don’t sound like that, and I just said I don’t need a scarf,’ said Louis, narrowing his eyes.

‘Well, then think of the charity. We must be contributing members of society. Philanthropy is all the rage!’ said Lestat, digging through the rack of cashmere scarves, pushing away the pastels a saleslady offered.

Louis sighed, aware it was futile to resist when Lestat was fixated. ‘Do you even know what this charity is for?’

‘What? I don’t know, it’s probably for children.’ He pulled out an emerald green scarf but shoved it back in when he saw the rows of sequins embroidered along the ends.

 _‘Alors!’_ said Lestat. He held up a deep burgundy cashmere scarf as if it were the Holy Grail. ‘What about this one?’

Louis shrugged. ‘If you’re happy with it, just buy it. I don’t care what colour it is.’

‘You’re the one who will be wearing it. Look at that tasteful grey lining.’

‘Really, I’ll be pleased with whatever you buy,’ said Louis absently. He pulled in close to Lestat as a group of young women shouldered past them, stretching out hands to pick up the various trinkets at the stall. ‘It’s very crowded here,’ he muttered, conscious of the extra space he was taking up with the backpack.

‘It’s very _festive,_ ’ corrected Lestat. He reached into his wallet and pulled out a 20 euro note, handing it to the stallholder. ‘No bag,’ he said. ‘He’ll wear it now.’ He looped the scarf around his fledgling’s neck, blissfully ignoring the embarrassed glare from Louis as he did so. ‘There, now you look like a true Frenchman.’

‘I _am_ a true Frenchman.’

‘Of course you are,’ he said, patting Louis on the shoulder. 'Come on, let's have a look at a few more…’

Louis gave a long-suffering sigh. Nearly two hours of shopping, and there were yet more shops to explore. But it was a pleasant night and Lestat was happy, so he resolved to go along with it a while longer.

The smell of _vin chaud_ brought them to a shop that also had a great rack of roasted nuts and baked goods. There were glazed almonds, marzipan cake, _buche de noel,_ and other items that looked too good to eat.  

‘I used to love those yule logs. So decadent! I wish I could taste one again,’ said Lestat, looking at them longingly.

‘You could,’ said Louis. ‘You’d just have to spit it out.’

He scowled. ‘It’s not the same, you know that.’ He glanced around at the crowd, and drew in a deep breath, a little stunned at how quickly his mood had crashed.

‘Lestat?’ asked Louis, coming close.

His maker turned back to him, and broke out into a bright smile. ‘I’ve had my fill of all this. Have you? Let’s go.’

‘Are you sure? I think we left one stall unvisited back there...’ Louis said with a little smile.   

Lestat nodded and took his hand, leading him back through the crowd, only letting go once they were relatively clear of people at the Place de la Concorde. He shoved his hands in his pockets and they fell into pace together, walking East.

‘Where are we headed tonight?’ asked Louis, slipping a gloved hand into the crook of his arm.

‘I was thinking of the Marais,’ said Lestat. ‘There’s something I want to see.’

‘Oh? What is it?’

Lestat took a deep breath. ‘I want to see the last place where Nicki and I lived. It’s not too far.’ He cringed as he felt the slight resistance in Louis’s arm as he registered Lestat’s words; he did not dare look at his fledgling. He braced himself for an argument, or recriminations, or worse -- pity.

‘I would have thought it had been knocked down by now,’ was all Louis said.

‘No, no,’ he said quickly, hoping that the relief in his voice wasn’t too palpable. ‘It was in the medieval streets they preserved.’

‘You’ve been there since?’ said Louis.

‘I looked it up on Google maps,’ he said with a smirk. ‘Saw it in broad daylight from the streetview feature.’

‘Ah.’

They walked on in silence; Lestat was grateful for the thousandth time that his fledgling seemed to know when to leave well enough alone.

They came to the building, and Lestat seemed to climb it with his eyes. A large sign was affixed to the first floor balcony proclaiming _À Louer_ \- _to rent_. He put his free hand on the stone façade, as if absorbing something from it. He dropped his hand, put it back in his coat pocket and looked down. ‘I can’t hear anybody in there,’ said Lestat. ‘I’m going to go in, have a look around.’

‘Okay.’

Lestat paused. He turned back to Louis. ‘We don’t have to go in if you’d prefer not,’ he said softly.

Louis had his gloved hand tucked into Lestat’s arm, and he gave him a reassuring squeeze. ‘I know that it’s important to you to revisit this place, and I want to be part of that,’ he said. The building was similar to the others on this strange little street -- narrow and dark, with warped wooden frames at the windows at each level, wholly at odds with the big spacious beauty of Haussmann’s Paris.

‘Nicolas Flamel’s house is just across the street,’ said Lestat. ‘It always thrilled me.’

‘I saw,’ said Louis. ‘I want to take a look at the inscription there.’

‘No need to,’ said Lestat, tapping his temple. ‘I know it by rote: _we, ploughmen and women living at the porch of this house, built in 1407, are requested to say every day an 'Our Father' and an 'Ave Maria' praying God that His grace forgive poor and dead sinners.’_

‘Very charitable,’ muttered Louis. ‘It must be why they didn’t raze this place to the ground like the others.’ He shuddered slightly.

‘You’re sure you want to go in?’ Lestat pressed again.

‘Yes,’ he said. Truth be told, he did feel some level of resistance, that he was entering what could be a place haunted with memories for Lestat; and whether that was intrusive for him or not, well… he had come this far -- Lestat must have wanted him there. He had promised to be at Lestat’s side, even when it meant things like this.

He gave Lestat a gentle tug and they approached the door; he heard the locks slide back and watched as Lestat gave a satisfied smile. They opened the door onto a very narrow hallway decked out in aged tiles reminiscent of the 1960s.

‘They’ve opened up the space a bit,’ said Lestat. ‘See where they’ve plastered over that room? God, an entire family used to live in there, in one room.’

He led the way up several flights of the narrow staircase, turning back excitedly to tell Louis that the stairs still creaked a little in the same places. ‘Can’t believe they’re authentic! Ah, construction was so good back then. Not like now -- so hurried and so cheap.’

They arrived at the attic apartment, and once again the lock was slid back and the door given a gentle shove by Lestat. He ushered Louis inside and shut the door behind them.

Louis’s eyes roved over the apartment. It was very small, even by Parisian standards. There was a narrow hallway with a door at the end -- a small closet, Lestat told him -- a tiny kitchen, a bathroom with a shower and toilet very close together, and then a main room in which there was a bed, a little fireplace, a cabinet with some plates and cups, and a small dining table still covered in a dusty tablecloth.

‘This was the best we ever got,’ said Lestat reverently. ‘Would you believe it? This was the biggest and swankiest of all the hellish little places we sought refuge. This room used to be bigger - they must have put the wall in here’. He knocked on the adjoining wall to the bathroom and gave a satisfied nod as it sounded hollow. ‘It was still splendidly squalid. There were mice, of course…’

‘Of course,’ said Louis, somewhat fatuously. He wandered over to the window and stared out at the narrow street. ‘It’s... claustrophobic,’ he said.

Lestat joined him at the window. ‘You can’t imagine. We barely had any sunlight, and if you threw open the windows, the stink of shit was overpowering.’

Louis wrinkled his nose with distaste. ‘I’d rather not imagine it.’

Lestat gave him a wry smile. ‘My gentleman planter,’ he said.

‘I’m not taking the bait on that,’ said Louis. He placed a hand onto the window and ran it down the thick glass. ‘Is -- is this the window where--?’

Lestat nodded grimly. ‘The very same. It all changed for me that night.’ He looked back over his shoulder, at the bed. ‘It was unfair. It wasn’t right on _him_.’

‘I know,’ said Louis softly.

Lestat turned and walked over to the bed. It was an old-fashioned affair, with a brass bed frame; it was barely wide enough to be a double. The mattress was still on it, stripped back to a grey valance sheet. 'This isn't the same bed,’ he said, ‘but it's about the same size - would you believe two men fit into it?'

Louis clasped his elbows and gave Lestat a knowing look. 'I'm sure you made economic use of the space.'

'Not like you,’ said Lestat, sitting on the bed and bouncing a little. ‘Used to luxury and comfort.'

'Yes, well,’ said Louis with quiet malice. ‘I sleep in a very narrow bed these days, thanks to you.'

Lestat stuck out his tongue playfully, then let his gaze take in the room. It was as if things sprang up everywhere he looked; there the cabinet became the old desk, cluttered with wine bottles and playbills; over there in the corner would be Nicki’s violin, lovingly tended. And the slim, beautiful man in front of him was just a little stockier, his eyes warm brown instead of that bewitching green.

The smile died on Lestat’s face. He stared at Louis contemplatively.

Louis shifted. ‘You know, we passed a bookstore on the way here. I think I saw an edition of that Zola I was looking for… I’ll be there if you need me.’

‘Huh,’ said Lestat snippily. _‘_ Two hundred years, and you still love books more than me.’

‘Le _stat_.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘You know I don’t mean it. And thank you.’

Louis came close and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

Lestat watched him go, shutting the door carefully behind him. He fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The silence was almost oppressive. No life here. He clasped his hands together. ‘Weren’t we happy?’ he whispered.

  
***

‘You’re not wearing that to the party.’

‘The hell I’m not!’ said Lestat, straightening his sleeves in the mirror. ‘I look better in it than you do!’ he said definitively as he swept his hair back and tied it into a ribbon loosely, pulling a few golden waves back out for a rugged feel.

Nicolas came to his side then, and looked at their reflection together; Lestat in a midnight blue velvet brocade frock coat, lace shirt with cuffs frothing at his wrists, Nicolas still undressed from the waist up.

‘It’s mine, Lestat,’ Nicolas insisted, turning Lestat slightly towards him and unbuttoning the coat.

Lestat reluctantly shook himself free of the coat but not the blouse, and handed it over to Nicolas. ‘Fine. Take it. Too dreary, anyway!’ He pushed past Nicolas and rummaged in their little closet for something else.

‘Do we have to go to this party at all, really?’ Nicolas sighed, smoothing the wrinkles out of the coat in his hands. ‘Wouldn’t you rather stay in, have a private solo performance…?’ he trailed off, watching Lestat return to the mirror with a red velvet coat, and put it on.

‘Nicki, we can stay in any night! This is our first celebration where I’m one of the cast too -- you know how much that means to me.’

He was pleased with this choice; the red complemented his skin and gave an almost violet tint to his eyes. He looked at Nicolas, then at the dark blue coat still in his hands. ‘Goodness, Nicki, we’ll be late if you don’t get dressed!’

‘Do it for me.’

‘What was that?’

‘I mean, _dress me,’_ said Nicolas.

Lestat smirked and picked up another blouse from the back of a chair and smoothed it out. ‘You know I don’t do this for just _anyone_ now,’ he said, coming up behind Nicolas and kissing his neck. ‘Only for you.’

Nicolas put his hands out and allowed Lestat to manoeuvre them into the sleeves and drag the shirt up and on, placing little kisses on the skin as it was covered. Then he came around to the front and did up the buttons, pressing his lips to that tender little dip in the clavicle. The jacket came next and they were nearly ready. Lestat stood back and admired him -- how splendid Nicolas looked in dark colors!

‘I’d still prefer to stay in,’ Nicolas grumbled, as Lestat pulled his dark unruly hair into a ribbon. ‘Why do I have to share you with all these… _people?’_

‘I thought you’d be used to sharing me by now,’ said Lestat. ‘Besides, I’m coming home with _you.’_

‘So you say,’ Nicolas muttered.

‘Now look here, de Lenfent! We are going to this party and you will change this mien, yes? It’s your Christmas gift to me,’ Lestat pouted, his hands on Nicolas’ upper arms. ‘Don’t make me bribe you into submission.’

‘Oh? With what would you bribe me?’ said Nicolas, cocking his head slightly to the side. He licked his full lips; that sly little look could always charm Lestat, and it was no less effective right now.

Lestat gave a sigh. ‘Ah, all I can offer you is time, as I barely have a handful of deniers to my name,’ he laughed. ‘We’ll leave the party early--’

‘Just the two of us, don’t go inviting anyone here!’

‘Yes.’

‘We leave after an hour.’

‘Three!’ Lestat scoffed. ‘Nothing happens in _one hour--’_

‘An hour and a half,’ said Nicolas, slipping his hands around Lestat’s waist and pulling him close.

‘You drive a hard bargain, de Lenfent. Two hours. Final offer.’

Nicolas nodded ever so slightly, and kissed Lestat, sealing the deal.

***

Renaud placed a glass of wine into Lestat’s hand, and then one into Nicolas’s as they entered. The actors and musicians were already fully into the swing of the festivities, talking, dancing and a couple of the violinists striking up a merry tune.

Nicolas grimaced. ‘I should give them some lessons…’ he said. He laughed a little when Lestat elbowed him in the ribs.

‘Best behaviour tonight,’ hissed Lestat.

‘But of course, my wolfkiller.’

Lestat was about to say something to him when one of the young actresses bounded up to him and took his arm. ‘Dance with me?’ she said, smiling coquettishly.

‘Certainly, Mademoiselle!’ purred Lestat, downing his drink and setting the glass on a table.

Nicolas gave him an amused look. ‘Ever the consummate flirt,’ he said fondly, swirling his wine and taking a sip. He raised his glass to Renaud in thanks, who was now across the room.

‘Come on, come dance with us,’ Lestat said, beckoning him with a finger.

Nicolas glowered. ‘I shan’t dance,’ he said. ‘You know I don’t wish to act the fool.’ He took another sip. The wine was working in him already, softening the edges.

‘Just one,’ said Lestat, assuming a comically crestfallen attitude, and the actress by his side took up the same farce with pleading hands and a little pout.

He sighed heavily. ‘Fine,’ and then that wry half-grin he often gave. ‘For you.’ He set his glass down and followed Lestat and the girl into the centre of the room, where another lady swiftly took up his hands.

The crowd clapped the dancers on as they swirled in practiced form, and Nicolas had to admit he was enjoying himself. He kept an eye on Lestat, who guided his dance partner along with the lightest touch of his hands. Every so often, Lestat would make some little improvised step as if he might trip over his own feet and fall, but he never did, sending those around him into peals of laughter.

The music sped up and when the time came for the final dip in the dance, Lestat twirled his partner away and cut across to Nicolas, sweeping him into his arms and dipping him instead for the kiss. He kissed him passionately, his tongue just gently running along Nicki’s, his eyes closed, and acted comically shocked when he opened his eyes, breaking the kiss. He lifted Nicolas back up, feigning all manner of apology and straightening his clothes. The crowd roared with laughter and Nicolas blushed, but the others were charmed completely, watching Lestat find his way to a chair and collapse into it as if the dance had drained him of every bit of energy. His lady dance partner brought him another glass of wine and fanned him dramatically.

They retired to the side of the room, letting the next set of actors take the dancefloor. Renaud had a couple of his workers hand out cakes and buche de noel wrapped in brown paper; some tore it open immediately to devour, whilst others reverently placed it aside for later. Lestat took a portion for himself and one for Nicolas, and stowed them within the folds of his coat.

Some of Lestat’s friends joined them, chattering eagerly about the theatre, and the latest scandals, and the next shows they were to put on. Nicolas nodded politely throughout, but then his gaze became remote, and oddly blank. Lestat marked the change and knew what it meant. He put an arm around Nicolas’s shoulders. ‘Listen, Lucas,’ he said, to one of the young men who had sat with them. ‘My friend here plays the violin, too.’

‘Oh?’ said Lucas. ‘Would you like to play? I brought my violin with me tonight--’

Nicolas laughed. ‘No, no. I do not like to play with any instrument but my own.’ He gave Lucas a conciliatory smile. ‘You know how it is.’

‘Yes,’ replied Lucas, smiling uncertainly. He looked at Lestat, then back at Nicolas. ‘But would you like to play with us some day? You could come and practice with us.’

‘You hear that?’ said Nicolas in a low voice, turning to Lestat. ‘Your actors are going to teach _me_ how to play.’

Lestat frowned. ‘Don’t be such a rusty guts, Nicki. You promised me.’

‘So I’m not to say that--’

‘Nic _olas_.’

‘Fine, fine,’ said Nicolas, holding up his hands in supplication. ‘Come on, don’t look at me like that. I’m here, aren’t I?’

Lestat gave him a sideways glance. ‘Yes, you are. And I’m glad.’ He raised his glass. ‘To our health.’

Nicolas raised his own glass, and smiled. He looked so handsome in that moment that it sent a thrill crashing through Lestat. ‘To our health -- to everyone’s health,’ he said, in a louder voice, nodding at Lestat’s friends.

They chanted with him in unison, and drank.

Lestat felt his chest tighten; he leaned in close and kissed Nicolas again. ‘I love you,’ he said breathlessly.

‘You always say that,’ scoffed Nicolas. ‘It begins to lose meaning.’

‘I’ll never stop saying it,’ said Lestat. ‘So you’re just going to have to make your peace with it.’

***

Somewhere, a clock chimed the hour.

Three in the morning, and they staggered drunkenly through the narrow rue, Lestat clutching the slices of the _buche,_ bound up in paper, to his chest. Nicolas draped an arm over Lestat’s shoulder for support, singing some Auvergnat song in a drunken, out-of-tune slur.

They staggered up the stairs, laughing and singing -- ignoring the angry cries from the occasional neighbour -- and burst into their apartment. Lestat headed straight to the little table and placed the cake on there.

He started a little as Nicolas came behind him and wrapped a garland of green leaves around his neck. ‘Like it?’ asked Nicolas. ‘I hid these in the closet. I thought we could perhaps decorate a little.’

‘Really?’ said Lestat. He could barely contain his delight. ‘We were never really _allowed_ at home, you know--’

He followed Nicolas to the cupboard, gasping with wonder as his lover reached in and pulled out more decorations; another garland, little painted clay _santons_ representing the saints, and a ball formed from rosemary and ribbons.

Lestat raised an eyebrow. ‘A kissing ball?’

Nicolas placed it in his hands, and gave him in a lingering kiss. ‘It seemed just right,’ he said. ‘After all, if we can’t quite afford the grand Christmas eve dinner, we can find another way to warm up.’

‘It is rather cold in here,’ said Lestat. ‘Let’s decorate, and then finish off this wine.’ He gave a contented sigh. ‘And then let’s just _be_.’

Nicolas took one of the chairs from the little table and pulled it towards the doorway. He clambered up on it drunkenly, swaying a little, and held out his hand to Lestat.

‘Oh, right--’ said Lestat. He picked up one of the garlands and handed it to Nicolas, watching as he affixed it to the doorframe. ‘That’s better,’ he said, meaning it: the sparse little room already looked a little less grim.

They set up the _santons_ on the fireplace mantle, and the kissing ball in the hallway. Nicolas produced a set of little bells and Lestat rang them, shivering with wonder. ‘Reminds me of a little girl’s laughter,’ he said.

Nicolas scoffed. ‘What a fanciful thing to say.’ He wrapped his arms around Lestat and brought him close, into a passionate kiss. ‘Happy Noel,’ he kissed him again, and then turned to look at the decorations. ‘Festive enough for you?’

‘Yes,’ said Lestat, a lump in his throat. ‘It’s enough.’

***

Lestat started a little when a gentle knock sounded at the door. ‘Come in,’ he called, without looking up. He lay his head onto his arm again and stared at the wall.

Louis opened the door and quietly let himself into the room again. He didn’t speak as he moved about the room, though there was a slight crinkle as he placed something onto the table - presumably more books.

‘Are you going to sleep here?’ Louis asked quietly.

‘No,’ said Lestat. ‘I’m just resting.’ He held out a hand. ‘Come, lay with me for a bit.’

Louis walked over to him and began to get on the bed.

‘No, the other side,’ said Lestat. ‘You be the big spoon for once.’

‘Brat,’ he muttered. He walked around to the other side of the bed and pressed himself up against Lestat’s back; he wrapped his arms around his lover and buried his face in Lestat’s hair. He ran his hands slowly over Lestat’s chest soothingly. ‘Better?’ he asked.

‘Mmm, much better.’

Louis shifted against him a little. ‘It’s not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. We fit. Barely, but we fit.’

‘He wasn’t as slim as you,’ murmured Lestat. ‘But only just in his twenties… we were barely men, really…’ he shivered almost imperceptibly.

Louis kissed his shoulder; an absolution. Lestat reached up and squeezed his hand, but did not speak any further.

They lay like that for a while; dozing slightly, not speaking. The apartment was heavy with _his_ presence, but it didn’t concern Lestat; it was a comfort. He watched the shadows on the wall lengthen as the night drew on, and he grieved.

Eventually, he roused himself, and Louis slowly released him from his arms. They got up from the bed, and Louis walked over to the table and picked up the bag of books he had brought with him. ‘Shall we head back to our own place?’ he asked.

Lestat nodded. ‘Yes, let’s. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Louis frowned. ‘Are you alright?’

He placed his hand on his fledgling’s arm and gave a gentle squeeze. ‘'I'll be along in a moment,' he said.

Louis cast him a tender, tolerant look and then departed without a word.

He stood there for a while after Louis had gone downstairs, observing the falling dust in the hazy streetlamp which illuminated the old thick windows. The room was silent, comforting, an oasis of quietness against the cacophony of life outside.

A great drowsy sadness crested in him, and he swallowed it down. The room was too still; he was too happy.

'I love you, Nicki.'

His very breath disturbed the dust; it fluttered softly away from him. He smiled, feeling the reassuring weight of his words. He loved their honesty.

He'd spoken a truth, and it was still true, after everything that had happened, and yet still he was happy. He moved to the door and took one last, long look into the room. He imagined he saw the beloved figure of a young man sitting in the chair near the window, his earnest brown eyes -- the color of violin wood -- following him out.

Of course, only a memory. A thousand times he’d caught that look, in that same quality of light.

He closed the door softly behind him.


End file.
